Mental Happiness
by EridanHasHope
Summary: John realizes that his past was what made him the way he was.


**Mental Happiness**

A teen ebony haired boy shook, gasping in pain as a man in a German uniform carved at his arm carelessly with a knife, carving the letter and numbers that burn in his brain: A-4821. It stood for Auschwitz Prisoner four, eight, two, one. NOT the boy you used to know. "John Egbert is no longer here" he had thought to himself as he slowly reached a pale hand out to grab the knife. When he had it, he held the blade towards himself at arms length. John Egbert trembled in fear like the wimp he was, pulling the knife straight into his chest once, now twice. Nothing seemed to work! The pain blossoming where he stab wounds pulled him down to the ground. Terrified he glanced around...then CRACK.

Johnathan Egbert, now Patient number 413, shot from his padded floor, a cold sweat covering his tiny frame like the wind on a cold night,"only a dream.." he whispered. Was it even dream? No. It was a ln acidic memery that poisoned his brain and never went away. That's what it was. The buck-toothed boy looked at the padded square room he now called home, having exactly 563 tinier squares. The darkness that usually contained the room was lit by a shitty light bulb in the center. He tried to reach out for the light, but his restraints did not allow him. He had forgotten the straight jacket long ago, always knowing how to get out of it. The jerks that worked here told him it was to help keep him safe.

Who was he kidding? Like hell if he was ever safe in his life after he turned eighteen. John tried to remember the day before his new home, before this stuffy roomed he was damned to die in. The ebony pictured his best friend, Dave Strider. Dave and his stupid aviator sunglasses and cocky hipster attitude. That beautiful platinum hair that was always perfect no mater what. No, John you were not a homosexual. Stop that. Dave was always there for his best bro with any activity. The shaded douche was the shorter prankster with bad eyesight's neighbor back before shit happened. They never left each others side unless absolutely necessary. They were almost like a couple if John was homosexual, which he was not.

John used to play piano than. Playing songs while his friend sang. Oh how Dave could sing! His voice was like an angel! He had also been the  
"re when the Nazis came to their little town in Poland. Hich is where John went to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. When the Nazis broke down their door, Dave stood up to protect John. He even punched one. But it was no use.. the assholes beat Dave until he was covered in bruises and blood, laying on the floor. The ebony quickly checked for his pulse. Good..weak but there. He carried Dave into the old cattle car they were being transported in, laying the boys head in his lap as the rest of his body was in the floor. "Where are they taking us?" He thought sadly.

"E..egderp?" A strained voice floated to his ears. John looked down at his best friend, whose shades were gone. His eyes, which were supposed to be a piercing red, were now a dull, muddy and dark maroon colour.

"Yes Dave?" Thweebony haired boy asked quietly, his voice cracking.

"Do not leave me..and..." a long pause hung in the air like ice,"please...don't forget me.." the platinum haired boy reached out to take Johns hand.

"I wont..ever." John cried, stroking Dave's hair in a non homo way.

"D-don't..cry..." Dave choked out, before going limp, his face relaxing and eyes open.

"Dave!?" John screamed, shaking the corpse that used to be his friend.

Now Patient 413 was banging his head against the floor,screeching in sadness and anger. Suddenly he was held up off of the ground. Oh how the patient struggled, screaming,"i have to see Dave!"

"Sedate him, Dr. MAKARA" Karkat screamed, another doctor. He felt something sharp into his body, causing himself to go sleepy,"Dave" he whimpered. They usually had to use two or three sedatives to calm him. Which was not healthy, but needed.  
The last thing John remembered before his body was floating in a sea of darkness, was his arm, having wriggled out of its restraints. He could have chuckled, but he saw the letters carved and never leaving his body:  
A-4821  
Dave Strider  
4/13/1940


End file.
